


Mephisto Waltz

by RisingEmpress



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Amputation Jokes, Crack Treated Seriously, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Season/Series 01, Serious Issues Treated As Crack, Someone Help Will Graham, Will Graham is a Mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27023815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingEmpress/pseuds/RisingEmpress
Summary: The Chesapeake Ripper had taken his leg.Stolenit. A limb for leisure?The hunt for the notorious cannibal proves not only dangerous to Will Graham's psyche, but may leave him marked for all eternity. Thankfully, he's witty as few.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 88





	1. Problem Free

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this may be offensive to amputees. Tread lightly, friends. Much love.

Waking up fully rested was not something Will Graham was used to. But on this cold October morning he awakes at a reasonable hour, fully rested and fever free. The sheets feel cool against his skin, not soaked in sweat nor nightmarish aftershocks. Just as he flashes a small smile and stretches awake is when he notices it.

A loss. A weight that isn’t. As he tears off the covers his heart leaps out of his chest along with the air in his lungs. His heart shatters in horror. He would scream if he were capable.

His left leg ends below the knee. It’s all wrapped up perfectly in white, pristine bandages that suggest this was meant to happen. As if he’d consented to being maimed. It must be a dream. A nightmare, a hallucination.

Whilst trying not to vomit, he sits up and wraps a hand around his thigh.

It’s not exactly painful. Rather tender. He squeezes so hard he can practically feel the warmth of blood rushing to his half-leg, pounding on delicate thread to be released. Will stifles a scream and simply sobs, digging his nails into his forehead to hopefully awaken from this alternate reality.

Nothing changes. Not the softness of the sheets, the cardinal’s cheerful song nor the soft whining of hungry dogs. For once Will Graham’s mind wasn’t playing any tricks, although that was of no comfort until it all became perfectly clear.

The Chesapeake Ripper had taken his leg. _Stolen_ it. Will cringes at the thought not only had he been violated so thoroughly, but the Ripper had wandered through his home, layed fingers on his most intimate possessions and miraculously caught him at a vulnerable and rare moment of deep sleep, and with some kind of miracle drug gifted him a good night’s rest. A limb for leisure? A part for peace?

He drags himself out of bed and onto the floor and gags on nothing but air. His debauched leg is numb and useless, dragging him down in an unfair and unnecessary misplacement of weight. Why just the one leg? Why the leg, at all? Why leave him alive and otherwise unharmed? If Will were in his right mind he would attempt to examine his own crime scene; let that golden pendulum swing and retrace every step. He knows he will catch the Ripper, and that knowledge couldn’t be news to the cannibal. Could he really be that arrogant?

With an embarrassing amount of prayers he manages to stand, and swings disoriently on one foot as he subconsciously dials Jack Crawford’s number. It stings to do so, for it will only push his colleagues to icky sympathy and reckless retaliation. Emotion will blur their judgement, even if they are experts in the field of injustice.

_Fragile little teacup.._

“Will. You’re late, we went ahead,” Jack’s voice is anything but comforting; naturally authoritative and severe, and never without shifting blame onto others. Will knows Jack can do nothing for him, but he desperately needs the normality of alerting authorities when someone breaks into your home and performs an unwilling amputation.

“I need you to b-bring, uhm, Beverly. And you,” he manages to mutter, shaking so violently he grips the wall to remain standing. For a moment he wishes so dearly the Ripper hadn’t left him breathing. “You need to be here.”


	2. Obligation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to normalcy. You never know when you might miss it.

“The dogs,” Beverly shoots a glance to the stirring pack, gathering around her feet before disbursing in a chaotic unison. Not unlike Will’s thoughts; hopelessly trying to grasp any meaningful words before being reminded of the loss of a limb. It scatters any attempt of logic.  
“Wouldn’t they have made a noise if someone broke in?” She follows her curious and all the while rational mind with eager footsteps, carefully examining the door with gloved hands. “The lock’s been picked.”

Will does the only thing he can do; pull a blanket over his lower half where he sits in the armchair in the living room and pretend he’s intact. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Which one?” Beverly asks without turning to look at him. Her repressed distress is a desperately needed and appreciated coping mechanism for the two of them.

Will stares thoughtlessly at the dark wood of the door. Nothing keeping him and the Chesapeake Ripper apart anymore. Not the Federal Bureau of Investigation or locked doors. “Both.”

Jack sits beside him, surely uncertain of how much empathy he could offer, especially seeing as Will had fallen apart in his arms at their arrival to Wolf Trap. It was the last piece of confirmation that this wasn’t a fever dream. “Why would he do this, Will?” he asks with a pressured tone and a deep set frown. He’s desperate, angry, irrational. No matter how well he attempts to mask it.

“If he wanted to get close to me he should’ve known better,” Will says as he runs a shaky hand over the nearest dog’s ears. Winston, he believes. It doesn’t matter.

“What do you mean?” Jack sounds nearly frightened, as if he may finally lose his sought after profiler.

A bitter smile tugs at Will’s lips. Tears would be present if they weren’t all spent. “He should have fed my dogs.”

~

There were two reasons for Will to threateningly and quite manically point a crutch in Jack Crawford’s general direction and demand Will accompany his colleagues back to Crawford’s office; the knowledge he was capable of catching the Ripper and the need for routine. Normal social interaction. That truth makes him grimace, but neither Jack or Beverly were in any kind of position to deny him. 

“I should take you to the hospital is what I should do,” Jack mutters as he grips the steering wheel, glaring at Will through the mirror before turning his steely gaze back to the road.

Will scoffs with a sour chuckle close to the surface. “Why? The Ripper is not only a medical expert but when has he ever left incriminating evidence behind? Or any kind of evidence for that matter?” he sneers, watching the colorful world pass him by. Untouched. “You best believe he was careful and… considerate.” He aches at the thought, envisioning practiced hands handling his sedated and unknowing body like any ordinary operation.

Jack can barely look at him.

Their arrival sparks the opposite reaction of what Will had unreasonably hoped. The crutches cause agents’ and students' heads to turn, the half empty, half full pant leg strike confused horror and the look of death and grief across the profiler’s and guru’s faces demand stares. Will curses under his breath and hops onto the elevator to escape.

“You’re not going to catch him today,” Jack mutters as he regards his wounded colleague and friend in the thickly silent descent.

Will bites back sorrow, clinging on to the slightest sliver of hope before staggering out without a word. He could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beverly is alive and well, y'all! I promise Hannibal will annoyingly show up soon. I got you. Let me know if you liked it, and thank you for reading!


	3. Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guru calls for assistance.

“When did you have time to call Dr. Lecter?” Will hisses in disbelief as he’s met with the sympathetic albeit dismayed stare of his psychiatrist already waiting in Jack’s office. He’s as put together as always; neatly combed greyish hair and an expensive looking coat over a dark suit. The only indication of distress may be the top buttons of his shirt undone.

Will doesn’t want the sympathy. He hops to the board of useless clues and pictures of the appalling crime scenes of the Ripper to busy himself. “What, y-you think I’m losing it, are you? I’m not the one chopping off legs here and there, Jack.”

“I know that. Dr. Lecter is here to—” Jack begins to explain only to the interrupted by the doctor’s mild but unwavering suggestion the guru “take a seat”. As he does, Lecter carefully approaches his patient who’s already nailing images of his home and amputated leg on the wall. It’s an extraordinary wicked sight. “Whatever you’re here for can wait, Dr. Lecter.”

“Will, your leg was stolen for a reason,” Hannibal thinks out loud, wanting nothing more than to mend the pieces back together again. They share a moment of silent wonder. “Which would you suggest?” 

“Because he wanted to,” Will mumbles shakily, holding back bitter tears. He refuses to look in Hannibal’s prying eyes. It causes a twitch, but Hannibal rests a hand at the nape of Will’s neck to ground him. “Recall for me,” he orders softly, heart breaking in a fantastic climax. 

Will attempts to calm his panicked breathing; focusing on the humble familiarity of human contact. “I need to be at the crime scene.”

“You were there,” Dr. Lecter says, and even though feels intrusive, Will moves closer to the window before closing his eyes. Chilled autumn air seeps through layers of glass and the sun sets quickly, leaving nothing but hushed darkness.

It smells of dog and fresh linens. He tastes the bitterness of cheap whiskey and tries to shake it off. Change perspective. He’s obstructed by a fog that weighs heavy on his shoulders. An unnatural tiredness drags him to fall asleep in his bed still clothed. He greets his pack of dogs after picking the lock with ease, and doesn’t bother being quiet when setting his bag down.

Plastic brushes over his naked thighs, wrapping around his limbs before he’s sprawled out on top of it. He had bathed in blood, yet nothing about it was gruesome. He’d been reborn; stumbling as a newborn calf coated in crimson. The sea of opportunity lies at his fingertips.

“He wants to be close to me,” Will finally mumbles as a wave of shame washes over him. The guilt of an unwilling victim; he knows better than to voice it, but can’t control its unyielding pressure from within. The affection of the Chesapeake Ripper hangs over him as a heavy cloud. “There was uhm, some kind of sedative in my drink.” He stares at the autumn trees to distance himself from his colleague and psychiatrist, whose gazes born holes at the back of his head.

“To what purpose?” Hannibal asks softly, whispering as if he were right by his patient’s ear. As if this were a conversation only to be had between the two of them. Hannibal’s bare presence was always uncomfortably intimate.

Will bites his tongue and frowns at nothing in frustration. “To taunt me,” he swiftly lies to throw Crawford off track. “Show what he’s capable of.”

“I’ve seen what he’s capable of,” Jack states begrudgingly. “This was the most clean cut crime scene the Chesapeake Ripper has left behind thus far,” he nearly rambles before realizing his poor choice of words. “There was no blood, no torture-”

Hannibal can barely hold back a sad smirk. “I would argue taking the leg of a special agent would be considered especially taunting to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Will turns to his colleague, clenching and unclenching his jaw in frustration as he moves forward with the crutches. “There was blood. Lots of it. Of course..” he mutters, regarding the photos from his home carefully. The scent of Hannibal’s cologne seeps through his nostrils, providing an involuntary sense of security. “The Ripper works in mysterious ways.”


	4. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much deserved glass of wine.

“I do believe, Will…” Hannibal says reluctantly as he examines the thread through the skin below Will’s left knee. “That despite the clear violation of your autonomy, the Ripper provided the most painless execution of his violation.”

Will remains silent in agreement, looking up at the dark ceiling of his psychiatrist’s office, or trying to read the titles of the books in the impressive collection along the wall. Directing his gaze anywhere but to his stump or the inquisitive eyes studying it. He had never been on his back on a psychiatrist’s couch; he and Lecter had never mentioned anything that would suggest he should, nor had he ever had a psychiatrist before. It suited the two of them better to sit across from each other as equals. After all, they were just having conversations.

“That’s what concerns me, Dr. Lecter,” he confesses without emotion, but with a bitter smile. Numbness had claimed him, and it was relieving. He turns his head to look through the sliver of light through the red curtains by the windows as Hannibal covers his knee again and stands, focusing elsewhere.

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t suggest alcohol after a procedure like yours, but I think we both deserve a glass or two.” Hannibal retrieves two glasses to fill with red wine. They don’t lock eyes, but Will can sense the frown from across the room. “Why does it concern you, Will?”

Procedure. Will scoffs and sits up, putting what he believes are both his feet on the ground and standing before immediately swinging back onto the couch, avoiding the floor by catching himself on his arm. Hannibal looks at him but Will refuses to meet his gaze, muttering as he pulls himself up to sit.

“Where—” he looks around angrily before noticing his crutches leaning against his usual seat for their therapeutic meetings, about ten feet away. Before he can utter a full sentence in protest Hannibal is putting their glasses down, picking up the crutches and handing them to him with a blank expression. Even if the doctors exhibits no physical evidence of sympathy, Will feels small and pitied as he takes them and moves himself over to the seat. “Thank you..”

Hannibal ignores the whole incident and inhales the aroma of his wine in an unbearably pretentious manner before taking a long sip as Will gets adjusted in the chair. He feels uneven, as if the right side of his body outweighs the other tremendously, causing him to shift the weight in his upper body every now and then. He takes a second to regroup his thoughts, biting the inside of his cheek and studying the soft pattern of Hannibal’s auburn tie. “I would prefer not to be an object of the Ripper’s affection, or infatuation.”

“Does the Ripper see you as an object?” Hannibal asks, watching his dear friend more frail than ever before.

Will huffs. “Perhaps more as a doll. One to break and rebuild to his own liking. I don’t have any doubts he’ll return my… my leg to me.”

Hannibal purses his lips, crossing one leg over the other. “Out of only the good will of his heart?”

They share a smile, and for a blissful second Will forgets he’s eternally maimed. “What would be the fun otherwise?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clash of the psychiatrists.

Alana Bloom’s arrival at Hannibal Lecter’s office had been tumultuous to say the least. She had barged in without as much as a knock only to retreat in horror and shock when her worst fears were confirmed. Will’s left pant leg was harrowingly vacant, and the two men’s calm expressions as if nothing was wrong only fuelled her fire.

Will had sat quietly as the two psychiatrists had gotten into an almost heated argument when Hannibal had offered Alana a sedative. Her shattered reaction to seeing her maimed friend wasn’t abnormal; having an absolutely mundane therapy session was. However it didn’t take long until the three of them were drinking their nerves away as the sunset beamed through the windows. Hannibal had backed down gracefully, although Will detected a sense of bitterness about it. 

“We’re going to find him, Will,” Alana spoke almost to reassure herself, resting her gaze on nothing in particular as a vengeful scowl crept to her brow. “You’re going to find him.”

Will swallowed down the rest of his wine, prompting Alana to do the same as if shock had stolen her autonomy, while the Ripper had taken his. “When he’s ready, I will.”

It was conflicting to feel such mistrust for his colleagues at the Bureau and the justice system as a whole. On the one hand he was amongst the small percentage of true behavioral experts in the criminal field, but on the other he harbored some serious doubts of their abilities. Unable to fully emotionally disconnect or connect to a case or criminal, they were certainly unable to see motives clearly. Especially regarding the Chesapeake Ripper; a killer running laps around Jack Crawford and whoever carried the Guru’s title before him.

Hannibal seemed to simply observe their conversation, leaning in now and then to refill their glasses but otherwise sitting silently with a leg crossed over the other. 

Suddenly Alana looked pained; like her own thoughts had horrified her. She leaned closer in her chair and almost whispered, “why would the Ripper need your leg?”

The realization tortured Will too, but he kept himself composed. The corners of his lips twitched in a bitter smile. “It’s not what he needs, but what he wants.” He glances at Alana almost with sympathy, as if she were more tortured than him.

They stew in silence for a minute or two before Hannibal’s low tone smoothly breaks it. “He needs to kill.”

“Yes,” Will states nonchalantly, quietly basking in his superiority, even with the shame that follows those fleeting emotions. “The Chesapeake Ripper needs to cannibalize his victims. Needs the power of taking a life. But taking a limb of mine and letting me live is not his usual design,” he willingly zones out as his volume drops, knowing he’s capable of catching the Ripper if only he loses himself. “He would only break the pattern that’s kept him a free man for decades for something, or someone.. that sparks something other than revulsion.”

“Disconnecting to connect,” Alana sadly mutters. Her desire to dissect the Ripper’s brain is endearing.

Hannibal’s expression falters in almost sorrow. “Leaving you alive was the Chesapeake Ripper’s greatest gift.”

Will feels sorry. Sorry for how lonely this killer must be to reach out to him, and how this seemed like the only way. It wasn’t exactly reasonable to believe Will would accept him with open arms if he simply showed up at his doorstep without tools or intentions to harm. He chuckles unexpectedly. “I’d prefer roses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Got a whole lot more to go. Come say hi on Twitter in the meanwhile @ mikkelsmads.


	6. Good night, Will

Not being in control of one’s body wasn’t as discouraging as being emotionally tangled. Will never expected to have two people arguing about who was more capable to keep him safe. Especially not when the harsh truth was he wasn’t truly safe anywhere, so why should he put anyone else in harm's way? He stands pitifully in the hallway of Hannibal’s office, listening carelessly to the meaningless conversation.

“You’re both welcome to stay in my guest room,” Hannibal offers with an edge to his tone and a slight slur after having drowned his grievances. It was comforting to see him out of his element, or rather just more human than usual.

Alana visibly holds back her anger, focusing rather on gathering her things and putting her dark blue coat on. “I can drive him home, Hannibal.”

It hits him hard and mercilessly. He wasn’t driving himself home because he’d had one too many, but because he physically couldn’t. He turns away with a pained groan and rubs at his face in frustration, swaying on one leg. “I concur. I’ll let Jack send some agents to keep watch.”

Hannibal’s neck gives a disapproving twitch —the extent of his emotional display— and rests a concerned hand on Will’s shoulder before nodding. “It would be unwise not to.”

They share a silent moment of agreement and goodbyes; although Will assures his colleague they’ll be back on the hunt for the Ripper in the morning. They had to, if not only to keep Will somewhat sane.

“Thank you, Hannibal.” Alana speaks for both of them before they head out and speeds off to Wolf Trap, or as far as Will’s concerned, straight into the jaws of the beast.

~

“I worry,” Alana softly states as the car rolls to a stop outside Will’s gloomy house, lifeless and vacant under the black sky. “You know I do. I don’t think you should be alone.”

“On the count of my safety or sanity?” Will mutters as he unfastens his seatbelt. He can’t help but feel doubtful about his friend’s concerns. “I’m confident the Ripper will find me regardless.”

Alana swallows back pain, but her words hint of its presence anyway. Her pale blue eyes sparkle in the dark. “You’re baiting him with your life.”

“What better to offer?” Will shrugs with a bitter smile. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” he points to the two officers standing guard on the porch, accompanied by possibly the bravest of the three; Winston. “Good night, Alana.”

“Good night, Will.” She offers a gentle squeeze to his forearm that speaks only of sympathy before allowing Will to climb out. In the past he had thought maybe they had some kind of chemistry. That something between them may happen someday completely on Alana’s terms, because lord knows Will tried to cling on to her. Not only could she more or less understand him neurologically, but she represented a sort of normalcy that was deeply soothing. But that day never came.

Perhaps he was too pathetic, he thought as he staggered up the stairs and violently refused the bodyguards’ help. Who would want a boyfriend with the rumor of catching serial killers because he can think like them? Or one that seemingly can’t sleep through the night without a very specific concoction of sedatives prepared by the one killer still at large? It seemed the only one who didn’t see him as something fragile was the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Hope you brought a book,” he mutters to the officers as he hops inside, nudging the door open with the help of a crutch and Winston. The biting cold air should keep them vigorously awake throughout the night, but the boredom must be exhausting.

The taller one —Boyd, Will believes— chuckles and waves a copy of Pet Sematary pulled from his pocket. “Better let me finish it, too.”

Will chuckles as well, imagining Boyd’s poor partner having no one to talk to for the remainder of the night, or having to listen to tales of demons of the dead. “God’s speed.”

The shorter officer puffs out his chest as he straightens his back. “You give us a shout if you need anything, Mr. Graham.”

Will nods with a stiff smile before shutting the door and releasing a breath he’d unknowingly been holding. Perhaps he should have stayed with Dr. Lecter rather than return to his own crime scene. Of course, everything is as he left it. 

The blanket he’d desperately grasped to hide the lack of a leg as he’d sat watching his colleagues try to make sense of the unsensible still lay rumpled in the armchair. His pack of furry friends stir from their sleep to greet him with wagging tails and curious sniffs. He shoots a glance to the laced whiskey and bites his tongue at the temptation. If he weren’t blissfully exhausted he might not have been able to resist, but he drags himself into bed with despair.

If the Chesapeake Ripper was a zealous believer in Will’s resilience, then he ought to put his best —only— foot forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think Will will get another good night's rest?
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
